


Mooncalves

by MonoclePony



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1920s AU, Alternate universe- 1920s New York, British Marco, Gatsby era au, Hints of reincarnation, Historical AU, Jean a not so much but still very much so homo, Jean being drunk and poetic, Jean's POV, Lots of drinking, M/M, Marco a yes homo, Oneshot, Richwriter!Marco, Smut, WallStreet!Jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The definition for a mooncalf is a born fool, someone who spends their time idly daydreaming about everything and not getting out there and living, or someone who’s a freak or a monster. Maybe I hit all three, who knows. But one thing I did find out was that when the world really needs a drink, the only thing you can do is drink with it. And when you find a gorgeous freckled guy looking your way, you have to stop idling." <br/>---<br/>Having recently moved to New York to work in the booming stock market of Wall Street, Jean Kirschtein's feeling pretty cynical about life. He is also stuck in an over the top shindig of a place slowly drinking himself into a stupor. This changes, however, when he catches sight of an apparently well-known author watching him from across the room. And obviously, one thing leads to another...</p>
<p>Oneshot for now. I have ideas about mayyybe making it multi-chaptered but it's not my top priority :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mooncalves

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever wondered what I do to procrastinate, this is it. Whilst writing my dissertation on F. Scott Fitzgerald and the masculine crisis of the 1920s, what did I do in between trying to write it? I wrote this. Yup. I also blame Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby for this, because otherwise I wouldn't have been half as desperate to finish this as I already was.   
> This was kinda strange to write, but I hope you like it anywho. And it's the first piece of writing with smut in it I've shown to more than two people so...um, yes. This'll be fun. 
> 
> Enjoy it, and feedback is always appreciated! :) x

Getting drunk was something you had to do in New York.

Before I came to New York, I hadn’t been drunk before. I’d been in the glimmering capital for little under a month, and I was already throwing back bottles of whiskey like they were tap water. Such was the life. That’s how it all went here; I found that out quick as a whip. For the first week or so, it confused me. Why didn’t anyone care? The reason was that they were scared, I guess. The world was changing. Everything was changing. The war had been over for too long, and the memories of charred bodies and screaming vocal cords were shaken from people’s memory. All we worried about now was money. It was 1925, and America was burning money. Nobody knew what the fuck they were doing, so they drank the illegal right out of booze.

No, scratch that, _we_ drank the illegal right out of booze. ‘Cus I was one of them. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, or who I was- still don’t. Parents said one thing, your boss said another, and then your friends said something completely different. It’s no wonder we were all so fucking dizzy.

So we drank. We drank to forget, to laugh, to cry, to fight, to do anything; the snarl of alcohol curling in an empty stomach was a far more welcoming warmth than the measly wage packets we got thrust into our chests at the end of the month, believe me. Ah, fuck ‘em. Who gives a damn anyway?

I knew I was drunk, because I was getting poetic. In the midst of a national identity crisis, where the young people of the world didn’t know where their feet touched the ground, I was stood in a host-less party, spouting shitty poetry and getting roaring drunk because I hadn’t ever felt so fucking lonely in my life.

I had come with someone, a date… sort of. It had been her idea to come here in the first place. I can remember her words, “Come _on_ Jean, it’ll be fun! Don’t be a killjoy!” _Don’t be a killjoy_ , she says. _It’ll be fun_ , she says. “Your buddies from Wall Street will be there! Everyone who’s _anyone_ comes to these parties!” she pouted. So I went, and had to watch her clamp her lips to a prim white suit like he was giving out free whiskey from his throat five minutes in. I rolled my eyes and let her be; I had better things to do than pine after a lost sort-of-date all evening. The cocktail I carried with me in my stomach softened the blow.

I didn’t know where I was. The cab that brought us to the place knew where we were headed, as though it was a sixth sense or something. We understood why when we’d pulled up outside; the house was lit up like Coney Island, and it was already belching out wobbling and cackling men and women. I’d felt the flare of panic right then, sat in the cab whilst my sort-of date demanded I get out to take her arm, but figured I could squash it well enough with a shot of liquor. That proved true, but now I couldn’t remember if the cab driver had actually told me how to get home. Fuck. My skull was buzzing, and I was homeless for all I knew. Fucking fantastic.

“Jean!” I heard someone call out, and I swung around, catching a tray of drinks in the process. Everyone pronounced my name wrong in New York; ‘Jeen’. Fuck them. It meant I knew them, though. And sure enough, Reiner appeared in my line of sight.

Let me first explain something to you about Reiner: when I say he’s a beast, I _mean_ he’s a beast. The man is built like he could take down an elephant without even flinching, and the guy’s in _bonds._ He’s in bonds with _me._ Have you any idea how stupid I feel sat on the desk along from that Goliath? Well, I bet you do now you’ve got that image in your head. “Would you look at that, he turned up after all!” Reiner said, no doubt to some poor sap behind him he’d hauled over.

“Where else can I go?” I asked, a little too loudly.

Reiner’s eyebrow quirked at that. “Well, we’re honoured. You know Bertholdt, right?”

“I recall him.” Right, the guy who looks like he’s about to hit the floor the second you look at him. I knew him. I swayed so erratically I ended up falling against a fake marble pillar, and I peered up at the both of them. “What are you doing here? You have work in the morning.”

Reiner smirked. “It look like I give a damn?”

I frowned. There was the attitude again. I swear the entire population of America was sitting back on its ass, raising its arms and going ‘does it look like I give a damn?’ right now. I grinned and shook my head wordlessly, childishly.

“You enjoyin’ yourself?”

I shook my head again, the smile still stuck to my face. I’d forgotten to let it slip. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate my life!” I cried, a giggle spilling free from my throat. “Women abhor me, men pity me, and everyone’s so confused it doesn’t make a damn difference!” I threw my arms up in the air- and nearly beheaded a tall brunette in the process. She squealed and scuttled away.

“You’re making no sense,” Reiner replied, blunt and honest as ever.

I wanted to swing for him, but even my liquor-addled brain convinced me it was a terrible idea. Instead I lurched to the side, pressing my head against the cool fake marble in an attempt to sober up. At least the room stopped moving. Jazz music invaded my ears and danced a Charleston all around my brain until I shook it free, and it was only when I straightened up, blinking slowly, that I noticed that I was being watched.

There was a man stood a little away from the main crowd, the crowd with the squawking women and crowing men. He was wearing an expensive suit, cut from far better cloth than my worthless excuse for one anyway, and swirled a glass of caramel liquid around with one hand. His hair was dark, thick enough to be parted in the middle but not enough to make it look bad, and it looked soft. I had the urge to reach out and trail my hands through it as I wondered just how soft it was. Then, I breathed. He had seen me staring. He’d averted his eyes coolly to talk to the woman beside him, tall and athletic looking with a Bob-cut that tickled the bottom of her ears, but I’d seen him. I knew he’d been looking. “Who’s he?” I asked, jerking my empty glass in his direction. “You know him?”

Reiner followed my gaze, frowning, until his eyes relaxed in realisation. “You mean you _don’t_ know who he is?”

I scowled at him. “Why would I ask if I knew?” I hissed. The spinning room was beginning to annoy me.

“That’s Marco Bodt. He’s a writer, mainly, but his family own big business. He lived off their fortune before he made it big. He just broke a million book sales with his latest addition,” Reiner explained, stepping a little closer to steady me. “Pretty famous nowadays.”

The very idea of being star-struck never crossed my mind. These parties attracted the famous, the wannabes and the once-weres, and I’d brushed shoulders with many actors, actresses, directors, bankers, singers… all of whom were up their own asses. They came here to be looked at, to be idolised, like rare birds in gilded cages as the sparrows and wrens twittered about them excitedly. Well, I was no damn wren.

Still, this guy seemed a little nicer from where I was standing. He had a good-natured sort of face, the kind you could tell secrets to and know they’d be kept safe. He smiled at his companions’ bad jokes, seemed to be concerned when they confided in him… there wasn’t an ounce of arrogance in his air at all. I suppose the freckles helped; everything else about him was so mature and adult that he needed those freckles to return a bit of youth. Still, he couldn’t have been that much older than me, I figured. There was something about the guy though, something that bugged me. It was like I’d seen him before, somewhere, but I wasn’t sure where or why. “Huh,” I mumbled, catching a server off guard and plucking another random drink from its cradle, “haven’t heard of him. Is the book any good?”

“A million people bought it. It must have something,” Reiner replied.

“Let me guess,” I drawled, “it’s about the folly of youth, or how much the world is going to Hell. That’s what everyone writes about these days.”

“Maybe you should read it and find out.” Reiner squinted at him. “He keeps looking at you, Jean, you doin’ something stupid?”

“No!” I snapped, taking a large gulp of my drink. It tasted like aniseed, and I almost spat it back out again. “I’m doing nothing of the sort!”

“Well I’d watch out if I were you,” Reiner said, leaning a little closer, “he’s a three-letter man.”

I blinked. “Pardon?”

“You know.” Reiner lowered his voice even more, so that I had to strain to hear him over the noise of the band. “He likes men. Boys. The birds can flirt all they want, but that’s not what he’s looking at.”

“Oh,” was all I said. I think Reiner was a little disappointed at my reaction. Maybe he expected something more. I was too busy wondering why God had blessed me with such luck. Here I was, pretending my life away, and there _he_ was flaunting it. It must be a thing you have, a chemical reaction that binds you to those in life who share your inclinations. No matter where you go, you’ll find someone like you if you stick around for long enough. Sometimes you find each other out of desperation, out of not wanting to pretend anymore, but it was always the same. Drunken fumbles in the dark were becoming my strong suit. I took another sip, and grimaced. Aniseed. I’d forgotten.

 

I’d had my first experience with the same sex at boarding school. My folks sent me there to learn how to behave, but all I learnt was how to misbehave with others around me. It wasn’t like I automatically realised I preferred guys to girls, that’s never how it goes; the simple fact was that there were no girls there to practice on. And in a school of over a hundred randy young boys, something was bound to give eventually. So we practiced on each other. Secretly, when the teachers were away and the lights were out, we would meet each other in the middle of bedspreads and explore newly discovered lips, hands and… other parts. Kind of ironic, really, that the world we grew up in told us not to like our own gender and then stuck us in institutions that suggested we do just that. The logic is screwy somewhere along the line, I know.

 

Most of the guys moved on pretty quick, the stolen kisses in the dark swapped for the plump, soft bodies of the girls who we met on the weekends off school grounds. Seemed like only I wanted to carry on practicing. I was adamant that I wasn’t doing it right yet, and that was why I wanted to; turns out I was pretty damn good already. I just wanted to keep kissing boys. I have to add however that I didn’t _mind_ girls. Girls were alright. Girls were fun. They were soft, and supple, and loud if you got them going. But they weren’t the same. Given the choice, I knew my preference. The excuses ran out eventually, and I couldn’t lie to myself.

 

But I could lie to everyone else. That was something I was really very good at. I had practice with that, too. Hiding what you are is tiring, though, and leads you to hate yourself in the end. Here I had the opportunity to step away from that veil, and I was sure as hell going to seize it.

 

“Hey, where you going?” Reiner asked as I launched myself off the pillar and took one, slow step forward.

 

“To see a man about a dog,” I replied heavily.

 

“Want me to introduce you? I know his sister.”   
  
How the hell had he known? I shrugged, trying to remain indifferent, when actually my drunk-addled mind was screaming at me to fling myself at the guy. Reiner just grinned and put a hand the size of a shovel into the centre of my back, and gave me a small push. The room spun with every step I took, but that didn’t sway me from snatching another glass of whatever-the-hell-it-was from a waiting server and throwing it unelegantly down my gullet. It burned the entire way down, and I grimaced at the aftertaste. I had another. For luck. I was trying my best to saunter, but I had a feeling I looked more like I had a terminal limp. I straightened up.

 

Marco was in deep discussion with a woman as tall as he was without the need for heels, their freckles mingling as she leaned closer to whisper something in his ear. Bob-cut was watching them like a hawk with her prey, arched eyebrows arching even further when Marco laughed at the whispers. She’d be pretty, I mused, if she wasn’t so terrifying. The three of them looked like delicate moths perched at the edge of a lamp, their satin wings folded in against themselves as they looked around at the world beneath them. I found my mouth becoming dry.

 

“Hello!” Reiner roared at the group.

 

They all flinched as one, and Bob-cut turned our way with a pinched expression on her face. Her cold eyes locked onto us, mere Wall Streeters, and I could see the interest fade. “And what could we possibly do for you?” she inquired waspishly.

She was wearing blue- white would have suited her far better. The blue shards of fabric cut across her bosom modestly enough to show that the dress was well-made, but that didn’t mean the woman in the dress was anything at all, only that she had money. I squinted at her as Reiner replied, “Forgive me for interrupting, but my friend here wanted to be introduced to your sugardaddy.”

 

“And what makes you think he’s that?” her friend asked. She had less of an edge to her, a less refined accent too; she sounded like she was straight out of Brooklyn. But there was still something that threatened more. “You better scram, the both of yous.”

 

I was ready to give up. I was ready to walk away, and drink my entire body weight in alcohol until I passed out on the expensive floor of this expensive house, and maybe up-chuck on the expensive upholstery and get mailed an expensive bill. But then, I was saved. Marco paid attention to us. He paid attention to _me._ And he smiled. “O-oh, hello Reiner. Is there something I can help you with?”

 

I was floored. He was British. Jesus Christ, he was _British._ Was God smiling upon me? Had I fed hungry orphans by accident, or helped some old lady across a busy street in my sleep? Hell if I know, but Marco Bodt was British and he was smiling at me and what was I meant to do with that information? I dealt with it how I always did- I grinned, and offered my hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’m a big fan of yours.” A dangerous sentence, I know, but I figured I could work around it.

 

Marco took it without hesitation. His hand was large, and slotted right into mine like it belonged there all along, and the thought made me grin even more. “Well, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr…?”

 

“His name’s Jean,” Reiner cut in. ‘Jeen’. I hated him.

 

“ _Jean_ ,” I corrected. “It’s, uh, Jean Kirschtein.”

 

“You’re German?” Bob-cut interrupted. Her nose pinched together. I’d expected that reaction. Germans were the big bad wolf hiding under the bed of American soil, and we weren’t welcome guests. Well, some weren’t; I’d lived in the States the better half of twenty years and still got lumped in with the hell-raisers. So did Reiner, but no one dared cross him. As I said, the guy’s an animal.

 

“I’d say he’s more French, with that name,” the other woman remarked.

 

“I’m _American,”_ I said adamantly. I finished the last of what was in my glass and debated on throwing it at one of them. Probably not the best first impression in the world.

 

“So you’re a German-American with a French name?” Marco asked. I glanced at him. And then he smiled the biggest fucking smile I have ever seen, and probably ever will again. The whole room shone with it. Fuck, see I told you I got poetic. “That _is_ interesting.”

 

“Oh please, Marco,” Bob-cut sneered. “Don’t entertain the notion, for God’s sake.”

 

“Mikasa, why don’t you get us some drinks?” Marco suggested, before I could open my mouth and try to insult her. He said it so calmly that it seemed to trick her into doing just that. She eyed me like a bad smell as she passed. “And Ymir, please be nice. You’ve scared away anyone who tries to talk to me all evening,” he huffed at his other companion.

 

Ymir huffed right back at him. “I haven’t been here all night.”

 

“The threat of your presence seems enough.”

 

If anything, she looked pleased at this information. “My reputation precedes me,” she said proudly.

 

Marco rolled his eyes in a good-mannered sort of way, and then looked back at me. His eyes were deep and warm, like the tickle of a good whiskey, and about the same colour too. I felt my confidence fall to my feet. “So, Jean (he said my name right, and I about melted there and then), what do you do? Are you in the same line of business as Reiner?”

 

I got a nudge from the colossus next to me when I failed to respond. “I, er, yes, sorry, I sell bonds and shares,” I said, rubbing my arm from where Reiner had not so gently punched me. “You’re the writer?” I asked, and regretted it immediately. I’d already told him I was a big fan, of course I knew he was a fucking writer, ugh this booze…

 

Marco laughed despite my blunder. “That’s what everyone tells me,” he replied. “I dabble.”

 

“Well your ‘dabbling’ has got you far!” Ymir crowed from beside him, propping an elbow on his shoulder. “He’s a steal, Kirschtein, a real card. Most eligible bachelor in New York I’d say.” She pronounced New York ‘Noo yo-ak’. “If only they knew, eh Marco?” She poked his cheek playfully. I saw Marco’s face fall as he looked rapidly back to us. There was a fear there, a fear I knew only too well. Nobody wants to be judged, even if they pretend not to give a damn. Why else would they dress up like circus ponies at places like this and parade themselves around to get the attention of others? I frowned.

 

“It’s alright, I don’t care,” I said immediately.

 

Ymir snorted at that. “Birds of a feather flock together,” she remarked coolly.

 

I balked at that, my face draining quickly of colour, but Reiner let out a barking laugh. “You might’ve got yourself a boy, Marco!” he claimed, and a little too loudly too. A group of women turned and stared at us all with scandal written across their faces. I shot them a glare and they turned back pretty sharpish.

 

“Reiner, shut your gums,” I hissed, but that only made Reiner laugh the more at the very thought of me landing a punch.

 

I glanced back to Marco, and saw that there was a thoughtful expression on his face. It was mingled with something else, something I couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it was enough for him to knock back the rest of his glass and hand it to Ymir. “Would you walk with me, Jean?” he asked me. I shoved my hands in my suit pockets and looked around me. Everyone was too damn drunk to notice two gentlemen strolling together. Because that’s all we were doing, wasn’t it? Walking. And talking. Yet I still had that flutter in my veins, the kind of flutter that gets your blood pumping ten to the dozen and your heart roaring in your ears.

 

I shrugged. “Okay.”

 

Marco’s smile was reward enough. “Ymir, don’t follow us. I don’t need babysitting,” he said, patting her on the shoulder as he would a man. And then he was walking past me, towards the dance floor. I hesitated for only a second before following, casting a confused glance over my shoulder at a very smug looking Reiner.

 

“I want you boys home by midnight, y’hear?” Ymir called after them, and I cringed into my collar. I’d never felt as exposed as this. Marco just laughed it off and carried on walking, head inclined downwards as though he was thinking of something to say. For a man of words, he sure wasn’t the talkative type. Maybe he was shy, I didn’t know. We walked side by side, our strides matching, until he broke the silence.

 

“You, uh, don’t have to pay attention to Ymir and Mikasa. They don’t mean to be crass. It’s just their nature, I suppose,” he said. “I know they can rile people…”

 

“It’s alright. I have Reiner as a friend, I’m used to it by now.” That made Marco chuckle, and my heart skip pathetically as I smiled up at him. “I give as good as I get, believe me. I deserved that one.”

 

Marco smiled, but it was a nervous one. “I, uh, just don’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick. Ymir likes to joke and insinuate things, and well…” His voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t quite manage what he wanted to say, and instead he stopped, looking out at the dancers with a solemn expression. I understood.

 

“It’s not like that.” He turned to look at me as I added hesitantly, “I just… I’m not an open sort.”

 

Marco decoded my words sharpish. I tried to avoid his eye as his softened against me, but those moonshine eyes kept drawing me back. “You keep it to yourself?” Marco frowned. “That must be awfully lonely.”

 

I sniffed and turned to the dancing couples. “I can’t afford to flaunt it. If I did I’d be out of a job, I’m sure.” That was the clincher of all deals in this messed up place called New York. You could be whoever you wanted to be, dress however you pleased, smoke whatever you wanted, share a bed with anyone who was willing… but you had to have money. Rudolph Valentino could prance around like a human pompom all he liked ‘cus he was made for chicks, but if you saw a workman walk around in a get-up like that he’d be beaten to a pulp before he could blink. Loving men and showing it was for Hollywood. The rest of us had to get by with what we had. Marco could get away with it because he had the money to flash at people to get them to shut up. Money talked a better argument than any wordsmith.

 

Marco looked to be a little discomfited by my words, and we fell into a brooding silence, watching the couples dance like they were possessed with mania under the great glass globe fixed into the ceiling. They danced like dying birds, their limbs wracked in spasms and jerks and arms flung wildly out to their sides like they were defending themselves from invisible villains. The women’s dresses shimmered and swung around their bodies. The men’s suits were becoming ever more disorderly. Mouths were gaping open in silent laughter as the band picked up speed, and their jerking, spasmodic performance continued. I didn’t dance. I have two left feet, and always will have. But watching the group of people arching themselves in response to the brass made me wonder, if only for a moment, if I could manage it one day. Marco seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he turned and asked, “Do you dance, Jean?”

 

I grinned and shook my head. “Never,” I answered.

 

Marco smiled too. “Me neither. Come on.”

 

And so we moved on, past the wild dancers and out through the giant open windows the host had no doubt thrown open for such an occasion as this. I stepped out willingly, the cold air a welcome relief to the stifling heat of life inside, and felt myself sober up a little. God knows I needed to. We were the only two out there, and I liked the privacy; we could still here the mumbles and revelry from inside, but it was muffled and unintelligible, and made me think that we had nothing to bother us. A server would glide towards us every now and again to offer drinks, but I waved him away. Marco meanwhile took to drinking like a parched man, and I wondered whether it was for courage. He seemed the nervous type.

 

We spoke for what seemed like forever, about everything we could think of: work, money, family (though Marco skimmed over a lot of his, choosing to find my own family politics far more enlightening) but we remained in shallow water. I didn’t divulge anything too personal, and neither did Marco. We were, after all, only drunk. But Marco had a good sense for everything- humour, business, sympathy- and I found him a gem to talk to. An absolute gem.

 

After a while I moved away to the balcony. I had missed the sky from back home, and now it opened up to me in all its glory. I threw my head back, inhaling the freshness of the night air and staring up at the stars. This place was far enough out of New York to miss the smog and the ashes I knew so well, and the glittering ball of sky was opened up to us. I chuckled to myself and said, “One day I’ll pick up my pen again.” I don’t know why I said it. I just felt like it needed saying.

 

It got Marco’s attention, at least. “You write?” he asked, the interest clear in his tone. I’d feigned to mention that before.

 

“Not like you,” I replied. “Poetry, mostly. Haven’t done it in years though, packed it all in.”

“How come?”

“Lost my inspiration. That and there was no money in it,” I said, continuing my gaze up into the endless expanse of sky. Sometimes, it didn’t hurt being honest.

“Maybe you should try again,” Marco suggested, and I let out a small huff. “I mean it,” he said, moving to stand closer to me. “Writing’s a good outlet, you know.”

“Is that why you do it?”

Marco was silent for a moment. I leaned against the rails of the balcony, the wind picking up and tousling my hair a little. I didn’t want to look back in case it all turned out to be just some stupid dream and Marco wasn’t really there at all. But at the same time, I didn’t want to take my eyes off him. “I write,” Marco said suddenly, and I jumped at how close he sounded, “because I need to escape.”

“Escape?” I asked. “What ever from, a big shot such as yourself?” My humour fell from my lips almost immediately.

His hand appeared on the rail beside me. I tried to stop my breath from hitching, but I did a poor job of it, for I heard him chuckle with gentle amusement. “I need to escape from a world that is not right, and not fair,” he said softly, and the back of my neck began to prickle. He was very close now, too close some would say- but for me it wasn’t close enough.

I turned myself, keeping my grip on the rails as I looked up at him. There was no smile on his face, but there was a great intensity there that made me shiver. The alcohol was wearing off. “And if you could write a world of your own,” I asked, still smirking up at him, “how would you write it?”

He was too lost in me to care, I saw. Maybe that was his answer. I wasn’t to know; the moment his knuckles brushed lazily against my cheek, I knew I was done for. Sunk. Goofy. I leant into his touch, savouring it for as long as I was able, but then he moved closer, his nervous breath on my lips…

And then he kissed me.

It was slow, soft, and his body shielded mine from the open doors behind him as his lips covered my own. I wasn’t used to such tenderness; I was used to shameful snatches of kisses from men who were scared to touch me. It was a welcome relief, and I leant closer whilst trying to keep my nose from bumping against his in my eagerness. I failed. Marco laughed into the kiss, and his laughter filled me up. He tilted his head to one side to deepen the kiss and I followed suit, practically pushing myself up into his mouth as I felt his tongue outline the curve of my lips. A shudder ran through me. Man, this guy knew how to kiss.

We broke it for a moment, and everything seemed to fall back into place. The jazz music was back in the distance, the laughter of the guests too, and the strange feeling of danger that settled across my shoulders. I waited for Marco to leave, or at least look at me with the bug-eyed look that everyone ever gave me. Maybe I was even waiting for an apology. But when his hand cupped my cheek and he leant in again, I was pleasantly startled.

He kissed by the book, I swear to God. He knew all the little tricks to make a guy queasy. He was chaste with his kisses, never trying to pull me in closer or daring to slip his tongue into my mouth. He was a polite kisser, a gentlemanly kisser, and this was not what I was used to. I know I said that before, but it’s important to note that I do not do soft kisses. But this… this was nice. I could get used to it.

But when I let a little murmur spill free, Marco changed. The next kiss was stronger, firmer, and _this_ was the kiss I had expected. He inched closer, his hand on my cheek rising to lose itself in my hair, and couldn’t help wrapping my arms around his neck to reel him in deeper. His tongue was lining my lips again, and with a little encouragement on my part it soon delved into my mouth. I didn’t see or hear anything else. It was nigh on impossible to, not when he was caressing the roof of my mouth with his tongue and getting such _unchaste_ sounds out of me. I was moaning breathlessly between kisses, the sounds nothing but whispers on the air but loud enough for him to hear, and the familiar spark of arousal was starting to stir in the pit of my stomach. It didn’t take long; the fact he was fucking _British_ was enough.

He broke our kiss to plant his lips along my neck, and I hid my face in his chest, trying to keep quiet and not draw attention to us, the two lone figures on the balcony. He left kisses like smoke, and my fingers curled into the base of his neck with every single one he gave. I gulped. “M-Marco…” I managed to breathe out, and in an instant he had stopped. He was looking down at me with concern written all over him, and I calmed his nerves with a kiss to his chin. He was good at kissing and he cared? What Grecian god had spawned this man?

“Is everything alright?” he asked. His voice was heavy, and laden with a vice I knew too well.

I nodded, and let my arms fall from his neck. I didn’t want anyone seeing. I didn’t need anyone to notice. If Reiner found out, I knew I’d be as good as gone. Still, I kept my hands on his chest, creasing them slightly in the silk of his shirt. “S-so that’s how you’d write it…” When he looked questioning, I added, “your world.”

He gave a wry chuckle and kissed me on the lips again, short and sweet. “I suppose I would, yes.” His thumb was stroking my cheekbone as he let his eyes roam, and I was sure the flesh was burning under his fingertips. “How would you write yours, I wonder?”

I feigned thoughtfulness. “Well, I suppose it would be something like this,” I said, with a kiss so swift it seemed to take Marco’s breath away.

I dragged us away from the railing by Marco’s tie, leading him back to the space next to the doors. I pushed him against the stonework and kissed him again before he could protest, running my tongue against his own with slow precision. I felt him quake against me and grinned, flicking my tongue around his mouth like I was claiming it. I drank him like cheap liquor, devoured him like the best meal, and left him gasping. I liked to think I was the one in control, but then Marco would do something that got me melting like candlewax. He would run his fingers through my hair in _just_ the right way, or grip my body to his so tight I could scarcely move. The final straw was when he slipped a hand between our bodies and palmed the growing hardness beneath the cheap fabric of my trousers. I moaned into his mouth and arched my hips against his hand, eager for more attention, but that was when he moved away and rested his head against my own. I could have cried. “M-Marco…” was all I could manage to get out of my lousy mouth until he hushed me.

“If someone hears…” he crooned in my ear. I was close to saying to hell with them all and taking him right there and then, but I was forced to remember my manners. He was evidently feeling the same, if the tightness of his grip was anything to go by, and when he drew an anxious breath I waited for the inevitable question. “I d-don’t suppose you’d want to…?”

The cryptic question hung in the air above our heads like a poison cloud. I hadn’t been invited back to anybody’s place since coming to New York, and I’m not too proud to admit that a thrill of fear went down my spine. But then I saw Marco’s earnest expression, the desire and fear fighting each other in his eyes, and I knew there was no way in hell I was going home that night. I smiled and pressed my forehead to his, blocking out the lively swing music the band had struck up inside. Now he wasn’t kissing me, he was scared. He was worried. He was all of the things I should have been, but for some reason I was still. I nodded slowly, my pulse picking up the pace as I did so. “Yes. Oh, God, yes,” I murmured to him.

“You’re sure?” Marco persisted.

I answered him with a fierce kiss.

I knew how this went. We parted at the dance floor, and I eyed the less energetic sways and sashays of the drunken dancers as I waited. Reiner was gone, no doubt having retreated to a dark corner with a hapless flapper or two. It would not have surprised me in the slightest; the things the man could do were without equal.

It didn’t take long for Marco to make his excuses to leave. I saw the way Mikasa turned her nose up at his unintelligible words, smothered by the array of brass instruments, but Ymir’s gaze found mine in a split second. She gave me a tiger’s grin, and I took particular attention to draining a final glass of whatever it was in an attempt to still my racing heart. The fear I had for Ymir’s knowledge of us was drowned out by the purr of alcohol in my system, and I was thankful for its presence. I lit up a cig to pass the time, the acrid smoke in my lungs oddly lulling. When I saw Marco threading through people towards me, I took a particularly harsh drag and choked. “Take it easy,” Marco laughed as I got my breath back, “those things aren’t good for you.”

I frowned. “Says who?”

A strange look passed over Marco’s face, before he settled himself. “Nevermind, do you… I mean, do you want to…?”

This guy was too much. I grinned and nodded eagerly, taking another long drag of the cig without choking this time. “You got cash for a taxi? I’m all out.”

“Oh, er, well I have a car waiting.”

I blinked. Fancy. “Lead on,” I said, holding the grin between the cig in my lips.

Marco didn’t have a _car_ \- he had a _custom job Royce_. Nice little doozy, but I hardly remember much else about it. Marco insisted that his place wasn’t far away, and we spoke nonstop throughout the journey. I think it was a way for the both of us to control our nerves; Marco didn’t seem like the type who picked up fellas often, and I for one was out of practice and completely fucking floored by his general _Marconess._ So yes, the chats about cats and bimbos and whatever else we managed to fill the silence with was good. I let Marco do most of the talking, and I drank it all in. It was difficult to pay attention when the only thought I had in my mind was that I was going to be calling out his name all too soon, and it wasn’t going to be because I’d misplaced him.

When we drew up to his house, I was a little knocked for six. Big place, big windows, big doors. “Writing sure pays well, huh?” I remarked as he opened the door for me. Gentlemanly. Nice.

Marco’s ears turned pink. “I guess it does. I’m as shocked as you are, though. I never expected to get so popular.”

I didn’t get the grand tour. I didn’t even pay attention to the interior décor. The minute Marco had his door shut and locked I was on him, my kiss surprising him so much so that he dropped his keys. He left them. I was never so forceful, but as I said, it had been a while and I was close to desperate. I had Marco flattened against the door of his own home, my lips feverishly latching onto anywhere they could find purchase. Marco’s breath hitched when I began to suckle his neck, and he pleaded softly, “J-Jean… wait, please, it’s only a flight of stairs…”  

I was insistent. I was impatient. I was being a keening brat. I knew that. But it took every ounce of my willpower to pull away from him, shame clouding me momentarily. My life was a constant stage of waiting, and I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted to feel like myself for at least a little while. Marco chuckled at me again, and it rippled through him as he took my chin in his fingers. Warmth surged through me when he planted a small kiss against my lips, soft and sweet and satisfying, before he led me up the stairs.

I didn’t remember reaching the room. We must have done, but in my alcohol-fuelled state I had eyes for Marco and Marco alone. When he leaned in and kissed me again, we fell back on his bed and I was lost in the smell of him. He smelt like success and money, something I was never going to smell on me, but there was an earthy warmth to him too, something that made me hold him close as he tugged and teased at my lips with his own. Did I mention that the guy was a good kisser? I’m sure I have. Fuck. Well, it was true; he knew exactly when I needed more, and he would deprive me of it just to tease me. The soft murmurs I had spilling out of me like water seemed to make him more determined; when he finally broke away to pepper my throat with kisses it was all I could do to stop myself whimpering. I had never been treated like this before. Not with anyone. I was used to frenzied, desperate rutting that would have made youth blush, and then a wordless farewell. I was used to making love like I was on borrowed time.

Marco was another thing entirely. Marco moved slowly, precisely, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t ashamed of what we were doing. Even when he rid me of my clothes, his lips didn’t leave my body, even when he met a particularly stubborn shirt button, or nearly blinded himself in his sudden haste to unfasten my temperamental braces. Whenever I tried to speed up things, he stopped and hushed me. “Don’t worry,” he mouthed against my ear as he rocked his hips against mine, “relax. We have time.” For a moment, it felt as though he understood.

And still I sought his lips. I kissed him slowly, steadily, even though something inside me felt like it was shaking. I undressed him quickly, though, my haste making him laugh. If I’d known him better, I would have glared at him or made a comment, but instead I flushed and refused to meet his eye. Marco’s freckles spread out to his shoulders, along his collarbones, and even tickled his neck in places. I didn’t notice the scars at first; I didn’t let myself see them. But once my eye caught a small bullet-shaped blemish on his chest, I couldn’t stop finding them. A nick here, a long stripe of disturbed flesh there- Marco was riddled with them. I followed them with my hands and lips, and gained quivering moans as reward. For the first time, I let myself _see_ the man I was with, and _what_ a man he was. He was imperfect, and that made me want him even more.

Marco suddenly found a spot behind my ear, a spot no one else had ever found, and the hot flash of pleasure that bolted through me opened my legs to him, a louder than normal moan coming from me.

Marco had been waiting for that sound, I was sure of it. He pressed his bare body to mine, crushing our lips together with a heightened intensity that left me gasping as his hands roved about me. I arched my hips up to meet his own, and we started to grind against each other, every inch of contact a blessing. I hooked my legs around him to draw him closer, letting out rushes of breath at each instant we brushed against one another. Marco seemed to take that breath and expel it himself moments later, his hands quaking as he drew circles around my nipple with his thumb, pausing only to flick at the rising flesh he found there. I whimpered. My chest rose against his teasing hands, and he did it all the more, his smile against my lips as he heard me whimper into his mouth. He moved down then, latching onto my other nipple that had been deprived of attention, and began to suckle and toy with the sensitive flesh, his hot tongue sending me into sparks. “G-God _damn_ ,” I breathed, daring to bury my hands in his dark hair, my eyes snapping shut as I tried to keep my composure. At the rate he was going, I was going to have no chance. I’d be finished before he even started.

Marco touched me like he was trying to commit me to memory, every caress so tender it made me want to weep. It didn’t feel like two strangers meeting for a sordid encounter- it felt, not for the first time, like we were seasoned lovers who had simply been apart for some time. That was why, when Marco ghosted his lips along my jaw and whispered into my skin, “Can I be inside of you?”, I barely hesitated before whispering a soft, “yes,” in return.

I have to admit, after agreeing to it I immediately started to regret saying a word. I didn’t let guys have me like they would a girl often. They would think that, as I was a guy, I’d be man enough to just take whatever they were going to give me. I was no girl, no sissy- but I liked being had by guys, so I had to just shut up and take it. Right? Wrong. They were rough. They hurt. And they didn’t give a damn. So long as they got what they wanted, I didn’t matter a jot. I stopped letting guys do that to me by the time I was twenty one. But now, as I watched Marco cross the room and unlock a small drawer in his desk, I realised I needed it. I’d never needed it this bad before. And when he turned back to me and gave me this fucking bashful smile I swear I could’ve jumped him there and then.

Marco was prepared. He was safe. He cared enough to prepare me, to make sure he wouldn’t hurt me. Nobody had ever bothered before. He buried his face into the side of my neck and suckled at it gently whilst his fingers moved inside me, stretching and readying me with as much care as I ever dared to imagine. It still hurt, and I still gritted my teeth against it, but at every wince Marco would soothe me with a menagerie of kisses as his own personal apology. And then his fingers were gone, and in their place was _him._

I exhaled sharply through my teeth as he entered me, seizing up almost instinctively, but he kissed me and muttered in a quaking voice, “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, okay?” I answered him by arching my hips up against him, taking him in his entirety. To Hell with the pain. I didn’t give a damn. Marco let out a small gasp. I’m pretty sure he let a curse out, even. I didn’t care what he did- I just needed him.

Our skin began to whisper secrets to each other when Marco started to move, and I rocked with him, my head on the pillow and hands tightening into the bedsheets either side of us. He was big; he filled me and made me whole. I clenched my legs tighter around him and mouthed shaking lips against his shoulder like I was finding it hard to breathe, not stopping until I heard a moan beside my ear. I rolled my hips up, burying him deeper inside me, and heard my own moan break and crumble into a whimper. We moved carefully, Marco and I, and I was about to protest when one of Marco’s hands drifted down my body and rested between us. He reached for me, lustful but unsure, and began to stroke me in time to his thrusts. I about died then and there. I’m pretty sure I mewled like a fucking kitten. God, I needed this. I needed him. I needed it all. “P-please- ah!- faster,” I begged, throwing my head back into the pillow beneath me. I lifted my hips in time with his stroking, bucking into his hand. “Oh G-God, go faster.” I needed the bed to shake. I needed to hear all the lewd noises in the world and not know who they were coming from, me or him. I needed the earth to _stop_ , just for a moment, so I could forget in a way that no liquor could ever achieve.

And those were the magic words. Marco shifted my legs, moving them so they rested either side of his chest almost, and gave one a small, lingering kiss as he almost pulled out entirely. And then he thrust himself home and I swear to God I saw _stars_. “F-fuck,” I hissed, grabbing for him in an instant and smashing our lips together, my breath coming so much shorter now that he wasn’t holding back. His tongue was less polite now, forcing its way into my mouth and claiming it for its own. I moaned into the kiss and raked my hands through his hair. _Fuck._ He thrust into me again, over and over and over again, and each time sent me reeling. Just when I thought I was over the last surge of pleasure it would crest over me again like an endless wave, and Jesus fuck-

I shut my eyes so tight it was painful, and just held onto Marco, my legs clamped to his body and my mind God knows where. All I could focus on was Marco, his thrusts making my legs shake and my voice hoarse. The headboard was doing a pretty good job of making as big a racket as it possibly could when it hit the wall, and that just seemed to spur Marco on, his own moans reverberating in my throat and settling in my chest. I broke the kiss only to mouth curses that died in the air above us, and to say his name. I didn’t do names, but Marco’s… Marco’s I couldn’t get enough of saying.

I wanted it to go on forever. I wanted to feel like this, in a state of such reckless and unending pleasure, for as long as time would allow me. But I started to feel the familiar snarl of heat increase to a miniature inferno, and I started to buck back against him, willing him to give me that extra push. I broke the kiss to pant in his ear, “M-Marco…ngh…close…”

“Me too,” he moaned against my lips, “J-just… oh God, Jean…” He buried his head in the crook of my shoulder and bit down hard.

That, coupled with a thrust that seemed to hit something mind-numbing, sent me over the edge.

I came with a strangled cry, and I felt like I’d been slammed into a wall. Every inch of me tensed up, my entire body wracked with shudders as I rode out the paroxysms. It left me breathless, and all I could do was hold on, twisting my arms around Marco’s neck and kissing the side of his face I could reach. He finished soon after, with my name on his lips, and I tensed up all over again at the sound. It sounded good to hear my name. I winced as he moved free of me, but kissed the concern away from his face weakly. I flopped my head back against the pillow and put my arm across my eyes, still panting for breath. Goddamn. I’d never felt like that before. God _damn._ And now I would have to gather up my clothes and get out. Like I could move right now. My cheeks burned.

The bed springs squeaked as Marco stood up, and I listened to his footsteps padding away from me. I hated how heavy my chest got. I wondered if I had a cigarette anywhere. If I’d really done this, I might as well make it cliché. _Damnit_. _Don’t get fond, Kirschtein. Don’t you dare._ I kept my arm there, trying to will myself to drag my sorry ass out of that bed and get myself well and truly out of there. I needed to scram, I know I did, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to scram, and that was worrying.

“You alright?” Bed springs again.

The voice dragged my arm away from my face. It was surprisingly steady. Marco was looking down at me, frowning slightly. His hair was a mess now I was done with it, and I couldn’t help but reach up to flatten a section down. I nodded wordlessly. Now was for the awkward moment. The inevitable moment where he’d tell me where to go and I would have to. Sometimes guys would offer me money, and I’d feel sick. Sometimes they’d tell me to stay but not mean it by the way they looked at me. But Marco said nothing. Instead, he smiled and leant down to plant another kiss against my lips. I responded tiredly, but pulled away before he did. Someone had to ask it. “Do you want me to go?” I asked. My voice sounded strained.

Marco’s smile fell. “Do you want to?”

I bit my lip. I shook my head. “No.”

“Then you stay.” Marco’s smile was back, and then his arms were around me, pulling me close to him. My breath hitched, but I didn’t pull away. “I can have a car take you home tomorrow, if you like.” His words were gentle, soft, and I felt myself leaning into them. “I have to say one thing though…” His hands drifted through my hair, and I flicked my gaze up to his. He gazed right back. “I don’t usually take men home with me. I don’t go looking for… I don’t. I just… want you to know that. I don’t know why.”

“Then why did you bring me back here?” I asked. I couldn’t help it.

Marco hesitated. “Because you don’t feel like a stranger,” he replied eventually, and glanced away from me with a look I presumed was embarrassment.

“I know what you mean,” I muttered. I curled up closer to him, ignoring the incredulous look he gave me, and shut my eyes. I hadn’t slept with someone, not literally, for quite some time. It was going to take some getting used to.

But one thing was certain, when Marco nuzzled his face against mine and threaded his legs between my own.

I was beginning to like New York.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep to a 1920s-y style as best I could (hence the not going into /as/ much detail as I could have in the sex scene- it was a pretty hush hush subject back then despite all the decadence and deviance going on regardless... also trying to not use /any/ word for penis was pretty tough going I'll tell you that now). It does slip a little bit from time to time, but yeah. I'll shut up now.


End file.
